


Predisposed: Mechanism of Addiction

by All_the_damned_vampires



Series: A Castle High and A Fortress Strong [1]
Category: Eyewitness (US TV)
Genre: Abduction, Addiction, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Cat and Mouse, Dubious Consent, F/M, Grappling, Hand Jobs, M/M, Minor Character Death, Thralls, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-05-21 03:15:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14907269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_the_damned_vampires/pseuds/All_the_damned_vampires
Summary: Philip attracts the attention of a very bad man.





	1. Chapter 1

When Philip lets himself into the apartment, there’s a strange man standing in the middle of the living room. The man is tall with dark hair, and even as Philip turns with practiced casualness close and lock the door, he can feel his body shrink into smallness, stillness.

_ Don’t notice me. _

It’s unexpected, but as shocks go, a small one.  Philip’s mom Anne hasn’t had a boyfriend in a while, but it was only a matter of time.  She’s petite and pretty, full of wholesome, sweet energy--despite her habit--and she attracts lowlifes like sugar water attracts flies. They’re leeches, sucking away her happiness, her time and her money and sometimes her health, until she wises up and kicks them out. The ones that like Philip a little too much, that smile too wide or stand too close, she’s learned to ditch sooner.  They can’t hide their hunger for long and Anne may be a romantic fool but Philip knows she loves him. Loves him more than any cowboy casanova spouting pretty promises, even if she gets drawn in for a while.

It’s only a question of how awful this one will be.

Philip would like to slink past to his room, or slip back out and lose himself in the wide sprawl of the city, but the man has turned, set his back to the couch, and Philip raises his eyes to make contact, to be polite, to acknowledge his mom’s latest mistake.  A short, tight-lipped nod, a couple of ‘yes sirs’ and he can make his escape.

The stranger’s eyes are blue and piercing.

The faint smile on the man’s face is probably meant to be friendly, but it comes across as pure predator and Philip drops his eyes, curls his shoulders in, hands shaking.  Whoever this guy is he’s bad news and Philip’s eyes dart towards the mean, dark little hallway that leads to the bedrooms.

“Mom?”

The man sidesteps, smooth and neat, like his body is a curtain, revealing a stage.  Behind him, Anne reclines on the couch, head cocked against a thrift store pillow, long dark hair drifting down the side, nearly to the floor. Her feet are bare.

Her eyes are open. Staring.  Her mouth gaping, tongue protruding slightly. Her neck is wet and red.

Body numb, Philip stumbles forward, takes his mother’s hand.  

It’s still warm.

A scream is stuck in his throat, strangling him.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, fingers digging in, painful even through the thick leather jacket Philip wears year round.  He turns, room tilting wildly, and looks away from the corpse of his mother and back into the eyes of the stranger looming over him.

His mother’s killer.

“You’re prettier than she was,” the man says, smiling wider, teeth sharp in his mouth and Philip moans like a wounded animal, hands coming up, fingers pushing, feet scrabbling.  His body is shaking-- _ fightflightfreeze _ \--as he tries to get away.

Two fists close in on him, hard hands on biceps and the scream never makes it out of Philip’s throat.  Instead, a fearful whine, as he’s bodily lifted over the stranger’s shoulder and hauled out into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

Philip drifts for a while.  Jostled in the trunk of a car, elbows skidding on the carpet interior, creating little friction burns every time the car makes a turn.  It’s pitch black but Philip can see his mother’s face in his mind--pale, stiff with death--that image isn’t going away any time soon. Fear comes in waves, his body locking up, mouth dry and lips twitching, before the terror gets to be too much and he slides back into that fog-cushioned world. Away from the fear, the questions.

Where is the man taking him?

What did he want Philip for?

It’s not like there wasn’t this fear before,  _ stranger danger _ was what they called it in school, but in Philip’s experience the danger always came from someone you knew. He’d had his share of strange hands--hands fumbling at the front of his pants, hands tugging at his shirt, hands stroking through his hair--but Anne was always there.  Messed up, strung out, but wise enough to deflect teachers and coaches and priests and landlords and boyfriends and nothing was ever too bad, or went on too long or went too far. They were both built light, pale and big eyed, china doll fragile, but neither of them were born to be passive victims.

And Philip’s always been good at making himself invisible.

Then he had grown up and out of it, face still a little too pretty, and the attention had changed.  Offers to hustle, occasional cat-calls, but most of the hands had slipped away when he got big enough to throw an effective punch, when his voice dropped and the wisp of a mustache grew over his upper lip.

He’d never been so stupid as to think he’d be safe. 

The car rumbles on, wheels hissing smooth on the pavement. They turn, slow, the car tilting down, then leveling out. The car slows, then comes to a smooth stop. A door opens, then closes.  Keys jangling at the latch to the trunk.

Now or never.

When the trunk opens, Philip throws a sharp punch, aiming at the stranger’s blade of a nose.  He struggles up after it connects and the stranger’s head snaps back. Philip tries to scramble out of the car.

The man smiles wide, teeth now faintly pink.

One hand on his shoulder and the other on his calf and Philip is thrown back into the car, down on his back.  His head snaps against the trunk’s carpeted floor, surprisingly painful and Philip grunts as he thrown down again, and again, as much control over his body as a rag doll. His head snaps down a fourth time and his body goes limp, arms and legs flung wide, stunned into submission.

He’s dragged out, collar gripped by one strong pale hand.  His feet hit the floor and his legs crumple, and he’s dragged along like so much luggage.  The man who has his is amazingly strong.

His head is throbbing and his vision blurred, but Philip can see he’s in a parking structure, mostly empty, a few cars here and there, everything smooth gray cement.  As he’s dragged to a bank of elevators he sees a little security kiosk, well lit, with clear glass windows. There’s a man inside dressed in some sort of uniform and he looks up and his eyes and Philip’s lock.

The scream for help dies in Philip’s throat, stillborn.  The man looks alarmed--hazel eyes comically wide in a youthfully round face--but he swallows hard and straightens his shoulders.  Puts himself at attention. And in that moment Philip knows that this man works for his kidnapper, and he can’t expect assistance of any kind.

“Tony,” Philip’s abductor says cordially, dragging Philip past the kiosk like a sack of meat.

“Mr. Kane,” the man--Tony--replies, nodding shakily.

The elevator is polished dark wood inside.  Kane levers Philip upright, standing him on his feet like he’s a clumsy toddler.  The doors close and the elevator moves smoothly upward.

Philip curls into a corner, away from Kane.  Kane is studying Philip, smile faint on his face.  In the unforgiving light of the elevator his skin is corpse pale, his narrow eyes electric blue. Coldly handsome. Philip licks his lips, struggling against the fear to speak.

“W-what do you want with me?”

Kane reaches out, tugs at a lock of Philip’s hair.  His faint smile widens, but he doesn’t speak.

“What are you going to do to me?” Philip demands, voice high.

Those blue laser eyes are boring into him.

“Whatever I want.”

The elevator chimes softly, and the door slides open.  Philip sprints for the opening, moving almost before he can think, squeezing his skinny frame through the opening and running flat out down the hall.

He gets the impression of a blur of rich wood doors and white walls, tan carpet under his flying feet, and then there’s a hand on his neck and he’s whipped down, slamming his head against a wall before he’s shoved face first into the carpet.

Didn’t even make it fifteen feet.

“Nice try,” Kane says.  He pulls Philip to his feet, his hand on Philip’s neck, possessively casual.  Stunned, Philip wonders how it’s possible for someone to sound bored and amused at the same time.

He’s steered towards one of the doors. In a moment of absolute absurdity, Kane fumbles in his pocket for his keys before digging them out and shoving them into the door was a lack of finesse.

“Welcome home,” Kane says, pushing Philip through the door.

It’s not at all what Philip expected.  It’s clean. The walls and floors are slick, modern.  A bank of windows looks out over the city skyline. Everything seems to be chrome and leather. Yuppie asshole douche central.

There’s a couch in front of a huge TV, the kind of high tech toy only money can afford. The TV’s mounted to the wall.  On the marble floor in front of it is a pile of yellowish white fur that must be a rug of some kind. But then it shifts, fur rippling, and Philip can see with some alarm that it’s a huge dog, eyes blue as a husky.  It yawns, displaying a row of sharp teeth, but otherwise doesn’t move.

The TV’s on.  Philip can see a dark head peeking over the back of the black leather couch, wreathed in cigarette smoke.  For a moment, his heart stops. He almost opens his mouth, his mom’s name on the tip of his tongue, when the head turns and Philip can see it’s a stranger.  A young girl, much, much younger than he is.

“For fuck’s sake,” the girl says, taking a drag on her cigarette, and Philip ups her age by five years.  Baby face with a whiskey voice.

“I told you it was necessary,” Kane replies, sounding surprisingly sheepish for a kidnapper and a murderer.  

_ What the hell _ , Philip thinks,  _ is this his daughter? _

“The fuck it was. Whatever. I’m not enough, you gotta pick up some dumbass kid.”

“Bella.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Bella says casually and turns her head back to the TV screen.

“Bella.  _ Bella _ .”

The girl looks over, rolls her eyes, blows some smoke in their direction.

“What?”

“I’m sorry. It’s necessary.  You know that.”

“Yeah,” Bella says and he face softens then.  Makes her look even younger. “Just get on with it. And keep it down.”

Philip feels the hand clamp down on his neck harder, and a wave of terror washes over him.  Kane is steering him through the apartment and towards what looks like the open door of a bedroom and everything is surreal, ridiculously unreal and absurd.  Philip digs his feet in, Converse shoes slipping over the slick floors, like a reluctant dog being dragged by the scruff of his neck.

Philip is scooped up and tossed on a king sized bed. The sheets are dark grey silk, because of course they are, and he nearly slides all the way across them and careens into a wall before he digs his fingers into the mattress.

The door closes with a soft click.  Kane is standing in front of it, arms casually crossed, like he has all the time in the world. Philip gets up and stands beside the bed, chest heaving. He risks a glance around.  No possible exits.

For a moment, they just stare at each other.  Then Kane smiles wider, amused, and curls the fingers of one hand.

“Well?”

_ Try and get away. _

Philip already knows the outcome of this.  After all, the man is more muscular, older, faster. He’s put Philip down twice already. This is some absolute bullshit, some macho posturing, and Kane already knows the outcome as much as Philip does and he still wants to play this stupid game.

What the hell.

Philip rushes him, hands up.  The meet in a clash and then Philip is lifted, airborne for a brief moment before he crashes back down on the slippery bed.  He slides off quickly, a bit breathless, and stands on wobbly legs. His kidnapper beckons again by the door, cold eyes glinting with pleasure.

Philip rushes again.

It goes on like this for a long time. Over and over, he’s thrown back, defeated.  The second time, the thick leather coat he always wears--his long dead father’s jacket--gets ripped off and flung to the floor.  A short while later, Kane rips right through Philp’s thin t-shirt like it’s paper, leaving Philip shivery and bare chested. He’s starting to get breathless, tired, his arms bruised from being slapped down easily when he tries to grapple, to fight, to do anything.  It’s infuriatingly embarrassing. Terrifying. Philip feels weak, impotent, and he can see Kane grinning wider and wider as the game goes on. Like a cat playing with a mouse, a predator playing with his food.

Finally, when Philip runs at him, Kane just scoops him up, drops him onto the bed, then covers him with his own body.  Alarmed and exhausted, Philip struggles harder. He can’t shake Kane off, his muscles fatigued from all that fighting, and Kane takes his wrists in one hand easily, levering them over Philip’s head.

Philip screams.

Kane lifts his over hand and flicks his knuckles at Philip’s throat, killing the scream with a quick strike that leaves Philip gasping and gagging.

“She said, ‘keep it down’,” Kane says mildly. He looks down at Philip, draws his eyes over Philip’s face, his neck, his chest.  He seems pleased with what he sees. Philip closes his eyes, then opens them again, staring up at Kane with as much defiance as he can muster.  If he’s going to be raped and most likely murdered, he isn’t going to look away. He isn’t going to let this asshole forget his face.

Kane grins.  His teeth suddenly seem whiter, sharper. Even more sharkish that before, if that’s even possible.  Then his head darts down, quick as a viper, and Philip lets out a near silent shriek as he feels something sharp tear into his throat.

The pain is horrible, but with it comes a wash of something else, something Philip has never felt before. Ecstasy.  More pleasurable than any food Philip’s ever eaten, more darkly exciting than all the times he’s taken himself in his own hand. The stinging pull at his throat is sending pulses of velvety bliss through every inch of his body, from his neck down to his curling toes.

Philip is making a stuttering noise-- _ uh, uh, uh _ \--and he hears a dark chuckle in his ear, but none of that matters now. His hips are rocking up against something satisfyingly hard and he’s racing towards some impossible peak.

Then Kane pulls his mouth away and everything stops.

Philip moans.  He’s teetering on the edge of something, unable to fall over.  His body is shuddering with pleasure, with a denied climax. Above him, Kane is smiling fondly.  His cheeks are slashed with pink and his mouth is shiny wet and red.

“Please,” Philip begs.  He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for.

Kane unbuttons Philip’s jeans and tugs them open.  Untangles Philip’s hard cock from his underwear and begins to stroke, long, tugging pulls.  He bends his head and takes one last hard pull from Philip’s throat.

Philip goes off like a firecracker.

He’s aware that he’s moaning, low and deep and broken, from a place far down in his chest.  His vision greys, and he drenches his belly in seed, hot, and then cold, clammy. His body trembles, shivering, and the pleasure fades, muted but not gone, into the background.

He feels like Kane pulled out his soul.

Kane moves away and Philip whimpers. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to be alone. He wants to be held close, comforted. He feels the swipe of cloth against his stomach--his own t-shirt, Philip thinks blearily--and then he is lifted, tucked under the ridiculously slippery blankets, like a child being tucked in by a parent. Kane tugs off Philip’s shoes and socks, and tucks Philip’s bare feet under the blankets.

Like the way his mom used to tuck him in.

Philip moans again, this time in fearful regret.  He looks up at Kane, his kidnapper, his mom’s murderer.  And apparently--Philip reaches up to touch his neck, his trembling fingers come away with smears of red--some kind of fucking Dracula. His scream comes out as a shaky yawn. He’s fading fast.

“First times,” Kane murmurs, sounding darkly satisfied. “First times are the best.”

Then Philip closes his heavy eyes and passes out.


End file.
